Chris Evans - The Intern
A/N & WC - I know absolutely fuck all about American politics, other than what’s in the news and in RWRB: I’m British. However I read a TikTok comment that said ‘[in D.C.] it’s an open secret that Chris Evans regularly hooks up with 20 y/o congressional interns when he’s here promoting his foundation,’ and I obviously don't know if this is true or false, but this idea spawned. This is kinda coworkers to lovers/boss&employee to lovers/she hates him he loves her to lovers? I specify reader's height and education but feel free to change it in your head because I just did what worked with this idea, which is fictional. I do not know Chris, nor do I claim to. This is first and foremost a work of fiction. I don't consent to this being posted elsewhere. 12.5k.
Warnings - Chris sleeping with people half his age, politics, bisexual!tall!reader, mild harrassment kinda: Chris keeps pursuing reader when she declines, alcohol consumption, fuckboy behaviour, smut: degradation kink, praise kink, 'Mr' and 'Miss' in bed, slight anal play, oral f rec, protected sex, fingering, slight dom!reader & sub!chris, sort of tattoo kink. 18+ only
Summary - Mr Evans has been trying to get you to sleep with him since he first met you on your internship, yet not a single visit has gone by without him asking you out for drinks, even though you decline each time. But maybe you’re just a little inclined to find out more about how the elusive Mr Evans gets away with breaking so many interns hearts, and maybe you’ll test whether yours can stay intact. Drinks and Mr Evans' natural charm could have you falling faster and harder than you'd realised you could.
AS UNFORTUNATE AS IT MAY SEEM, you can’t remember a single visit from the ASP founders occurring without at least one broken heart. Every single time.
You tell them every time that it’s their own damn fault, that they knew the repercussions when bouncing head first into what was always going to be a one night stand, yet every intern in the office did it anyway. But that niggling part of your mind remains unanswered, and that just won’t stand, not with junior finals as well as one of the biggest political campaigns of your lifetime coming up.
And the visit is this weekend.
Every visit thus far, you’ve also been hit on a minimum of twice. Usually just by one guy, but if it’s anyone else, he makes sure to scare them off just to keep you for himself. You’ve never let him, of course. His reputation of sleeping with (and subsequently ghosting) every intern between 18 and 22 in the entire campaign office is hard to believe and yet incredibly veritable, which makes it all the more disgraceful.
So why is your interest piqued at the thought of some mediocre straight-cis white man who decides he likes politics when he barely scraped a high school GED and didn’t even attend college?
Lord only knows, but you’d like to get to the bottom of it before finals, and before another heart is broken and the campaign is knocked for six.
A smiley, blonde lady no older than 25 beams up at you from the secretary’s desk. “He’ll see you now.”
You adjust a singular pin in your hair, fight the urge to bring your thumb up to your lips, and grip your folder tighter. The office doors open of their own accord, or perhaps the smiley-secretary just pressed a button, but either way, you can hear your heels echoing on the expensive, marble-effect laminate floor that costs probably as much to properly maintain as your yearly college fees.
And there he is, behind a huge sprawling desk that isn’t even his, but that he’s just borrowing for the weekend. The chair, orthopedically designed for the lumbar support of your boss, is currently kicked back fully and is being lounged in by none other than the heart-breaker himself, hands loosely slung behind his head, and his feet up on the thousand-dollar oak desk.
Deep breaths, y/n. Deep breaths.
“Miss y/l/n!” he exclaims, “always a pleasure.”
“I ran those numbers for you, Mr Evans.”
He kicks his feet off the desk, and deigns to straighten his posture for you, a lazy—very unprofessional—smile toying on his lips, half hidden by his close-cropped beard.
“Thank you,” he tells you, voice low, but he hesitates, “you didn’t have to bring them to me, you know.”
“Well, I thought it would be more efficient since it’s been a whole”—I very ostentatiously check my wrist, glimmering with the vintage Cartier watch I saved up for a whole year to buy—“five hours since you requested them, and you haven’t yet been to collect them.” Or hit on any of the barely-legal interns. “And I called Barnaby’s office for you. He says he’s in, and I wrote down what he said, verbatim.”
You take a single step closer to his desk, forgoing a seat on one of the very uncomfortable square things your boss insists on keeping around, and hand him a thick file with a note written in neat, blue-ink shorthand paperclipped on the top.
His blue eyes flicker over your face as he takes them, but you don’t meet his gaze, and make sure he knows that.
“You’re very efficient, Miss y/l/n.”
“Thank you,” you respond, aiming to school your voice into a neutral tone, but when his Bostonian accent takes over, it’s increasingly difficult to keep a straight face.
You know the effect he has on girls, on women, on men, even, but this is something else entirely. You won’t cream your pants just because he shoots you a wry, roguish smile, and you won’t drop everything just to sleep with him. But there is something indescribable and magnetic about him that makes him a very attractive man.
Nonetheless, there are two Mr Evans’. There the suit-clad man sat before you here, playing politician and getting some sick kick out of it. And the other, more well known Mr Evans, with the tattoos and the dirty jokes. He’s a dichotomy to say the least.
“Come, sit. Let’s chat.”
“Actually, I’d rather not, thank you, I have work to do.”
He laughs, deep and pure and warm. It echoes off the walls, off the poor excuse for art strung upon said walls, off the window panes, and hits straight to that spot in the back of your brain that needs to be shut up. Of course.
“Don’t we all?” he jokes. “Just for five minutes.”
You concede, taking a step around the chairs and positioning yourself very carefully down in one. Pencil skirts and stockings are not ideal for chairs as low down as these. You tug at the edges of your blazer once settled, cross your legs at the ankles, mindful of your high heels, and look at him with your carefully perfected, political-intern, people-pleasing smile.
“What are you now, a senior?” he inquires.
“Junior,” you tell him, “I’m just tall.”
He laughs again, this time smaller, and places his elbow right on top of your neatly handwritten note. A shockwave of annoyance ripples through you.
“And why did you choose to become a congressional intern?” he asks, intrigue lacing his words.
You roll your eyes, sighing a fraction—as much as is allowed in your high-necked cream blouse. “Is this for your damn website? Because if it is...”
“Just for me,” he explains, and leans over on his desk, papers rustling as his tie knocks them. “I’m interested.”
“Um, well, I’ve always been active in politics, and I have a strong moral compass...” Unlike someone.
“No, no, no.” He stops you, and the air is knocked from your lungs. “Why did you choose to do this?”
This is possibly the first time you’ve genuinely been asked that question, because the real answer isn’t exactly interview friendly.
“Because I’m tired of the way LGBTQ+ youth, and adults, are treated, and this campaign is, in my mind, the best way to make a wider difference, due to both the legal activism and the queer charity support it offers, but on more topics than just queer rights, because the anti-discriminatory policies within this campaign are the best I’ve seen. The anti-racism initiatives, the anti-ableism laws, working against age-old prejudices within this country: I believe we can move forwards into a more accepting world. I believe the future of politics lies here, and I didn’t want to waste time at a New England college when I could be working here whilst getting my degree, and kick start my future while making a difference.”
There’s a brief note of silence, a rustle from outside, footsteps on the faux-marble floor. And then Mr Evans leans back in his chair, fingers straying to his tie while you sit there knotting your fingers together, and he releases a long breath of air.
“And that’s why you’re my favourite intern, and possibly the best in this whole office. Your passion is... unrivalled.” Heat begins to crawl its way up your cheeks as you cross your legs at the knee, your pink tweed skirt pulling a little. “Tell me, are you getting college credit for your internship here?”
You shake your head ‘no’, and have to push a pin back into your hair as it becomes dislodged with the slight movement. You don’t miss the way his eyes follow your every move.
“That changes now. Let me make some calls. With your hard work here and your undoubtedly perfect GPA, I don’t see why this shouldn’t help you graduate summa cum laude and make you valedictorian, if that’s something you’re interested in?”
Only the dream!
“Thank you, Mr Evans, I don’t know what to say... but you really don’t have to do that...”
“Except I do,” he says, voice low with authority, eyes darkening as he meets your gaze across the desk. He’s normally shorter than you, so feeling his looming presence is a change, “because you’re the best intern here, and you deserve more recognition for that.”
“I—” you find yourself stumbling for something to say other than the obvious exercise in futility, but nothing comes. “Thank you, Mr Evans. So much.”
He nods, lips pursed, and picks up a pen, scribbling something on the piece of paper atop the folder you gave him. This, apparently, is your cue to leave.
He stands as you do, and this time, comes around the side of his desk to stand by your side. The sick pleasure you gain from being taller than him now is just that, sick, but he needs knocking down a peg or two. Or ten. Perhaps even the number of notches on his bedpost, but by then he’d be buried underground. However, you must concede that what he’s doing for you is incredible, so even his womanising ways can’t be held above this good deed he’s doing. He might be a fuck-boy, but he’s got a heart of gold, and the means to make dreams come true.
“Thank you again, Mr Evans, and anything you need doing while you’re here, I’m your girl.”
He takes a wide stride to open the door for you. “Aren’t you just.”
His smile, while you expect it to be smarmy, is warm and grateful, maybe even genuine.
“Let me walk with you.”
So you do, and feel his hand brushing yours, the coldness of his rings contrasting the flush of your body, his pinky finger briefly knotting around your own as you walk, side by side, in silence, throughout the office.
“Actually...” he begins once we reach your designated area.
He leans his elbow against your screen, crossing his legs at the ankle in an attempt to look casually suave. That doesn’t work on the same faux-marble laminate floor that spans the area: it’s too squeaky.
“I can offer you two options... a pile of work that only you are capable of completing to a high enough standard, which you will get full credit for, or you can come for a drink with me. Tonight. No strings attached... but you have to wear that suit.”
Even with everything he’s doing for you, you don’t owe him anything, least of all a drink which will undoubtedly lead to mediocre sex. That’s the way it’s been with every other intern in the place for the past 3 years, and you won’t suffer the way they were all stupid enough to.
“Thanks, but I’ll take the work. I’m far better at it,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
He stands and straightens out in concession, “I’ll have my secretary bring it over to you, and I’ll come check on you before the days out, cool?”
“Like a cucumber.”
His presence looms over you as he hovers momentarily, expectant, perhaps, but within a minute he’s walking back along the corridor, the swagger in his stride audible from his Brogues. While you dig into some work on the computer, awaiting the files Mr Evans is sending over for you, you catch a glimpse of his face, as though he cast a final, longing glance back over his shoulder at you.
Of course he didn’t, you correct yourself. He did a good deed. Don’t fall for his trap.
But does it have to be a trap? Even someone with a reputation like Mr Evans could be genuine and kind without an ulterior motive. And maybe you shouldn’t have said no to that drink…
That’s when the pile of work lands on your desk with a thud, a gust of air hitting your face as blondie drops it down.
“Mr Evans says to call him with any questions. His cell number is on the top of the file.”
It’s a good job he’s given you his cell because, judging by this pile of work, you won’t be done in time for drinks, anyway. You shed your pink blazer, pinning together one of the pearl buttons as you drape it over your bag. Only you are capable of completing to a high enough standard… he’d said. If you believe that, and don’t look for the layers of flirtation and pleading beneath his words, you’ll be okay with rejecting what must be his hundredth offer of a drink with him. You won’t be another one of Mr Evans’ congressional intern hook ups. Mind over matter, right?
Mr Evans’s eyes are glued to you as you strut through the office, coffee in one hand, book in the other. It’ll be good to get ahead in an elective for once, even if you can’t pay attention to a single word scribbled on the page due to his piercing blue gaze fixed on your hips, your back, your legs, your neck, you.
He’s never tried to hide his watching you before, but this time feels strangely intimate. You have to clear your throat to regain some semblance of composure once you reach your desk, closing your book. It takes everything in you not to let your eyes flit up to where he’s sitting with his secretary. Some strange part of you hopes he’s watching your every move: logging onto the system, stacking your files, pulling out your pen, hanging up your coat…
The white of the marble, the blue of his eyes, the red of your suit. How fitting.
You know what you’re like, and you’re fully aware of what you do. You’re most men’s fantasy, in pencil skirts and frilly blouses and stockings. It’s an awful pity you have virtually zero interest in any of them. Except maybe this one, who, from the first day you met, hasn’t even tried to hide what he thinks of how you look and how you dress. A few moments stand out:
That time you showed up in a red, white and blue combination for the election, and Mr Evans physically groaned, tossing his head back, and held a folder over his groin the entire day.
The yellow ensemble—sunshine yellow—and possibly the only time he hasn’t left the congressional offices with an intern after telling you that you looked like sunshine, and you were the only sunshine he needed.
But perhaps your first meeting has the alacrity to stick in your mind for so long. And that one's on you. When a 6-foot-tall man with arms the size of your head, a close cropped beard and wearing a suit that fits a little too well, it’ll even get your fem-leaning bisexual engine going a little. You’re pretty sure most of the men in the office, gay or otherwise, had their engines revving for him when he laughed like that, and paid minute attention to each and every single person when he spoke to them. You’re all important to him, which is what’s so incredible, not that you’ll ever confess to having thought that.
But then he came over to see the interns, asked each and every one of you your name, your reason for being here, and shook your hands, offering a kiss to each of your cheeks. But something about his attention to you felt... different. It was obvious he was trying to get into everyone’s pants, but his eyes snagged on you, and instead of his office-appropriate smiles he beamed at you, and introduced himself as Chris, alongside insisting on calling you Miss y/l/n, because apparently you’re the most efficient one in the office. It’s good to know he still thinks that.
“That dress looks stunning on you, by the way. Props for dressing like this is an actual office and not a free for all,” he whispered gruff in your ear, sneaking a wink as he pulled away, glancing down at the navy number that pinched in at the waist and fell to your kneecaps as though perfectly tailored for you, paired with an emerald green blazer.
He has a point: people will come straight from college in their God-damn pyjama bottoms and no one will say anything. Of course you’re all for comfort and wearing what you please, but President Biden could come around any day, and they’d look like that. It was the first time you’d been seen, though, since most of the time people think you’re funny for dressing this way to go to work, and oftentimes college as well. But you’re at a top college studying one of the most competitive majors, while working as an intern 5 days a week: forgive you if you’d like to dress like it. It was just... nice, to be seen by Mr Evans.
Then he hit on you for half an hour before you point blank told him not in this lifetime, but he’s never stopped fawning over you. Perhaps until yesterday…
He didn’t even try to flirt after you rejected his offer for drinks in order to do work, and today, there’s not a single broken heart around the office, and he’s been in the office since apparently 8am. That’s never happened before.
Your heart begins to stutter strangely in your chest, driving you to place a hand over your sternum, swallowing thickly. Then…
“Morning, Miss Y/l/n. Did you get that work done for me?”
Think of the devil and he shall appear, ice-mint and whiskey breath, freshly pressed suit and tie, authority and looming presence.
“I’m almost done, just one section left,” you explain, eyes focussed on your screen.
“On my desk in an hour.”
Your eyes flutter shut, your red-stained lip drawn between your teeth. “On it, Sir.”
But he doesn’t leave like you expect him to, but instead just lingers, his breathing shallow. He watches as you open the server and create a fresh document and spreadsheet, pasting in the same titles you’ve used for every other section within the file he gave you yesterday. With your fountain pen, you begin to jot down notes in your neat shorthand, but Mr Evans is still there, apparently reading over your shoulder. A sigh escapes your lips before you straighten up.
“May I help you Mr Evans?” you ask politely.
“No…” he trails off, “I just wondered how you work, what brings your efficiency out, and apparently me being around is a distraction.”
You scoff a little, tapping the end of your pen on the desk rhythmically, in time with the tap of your heels. “Don’t flatter yourself. But, if you’d like to watch me, feel free to pull up a chair.”
He hums and ahhs for a moment before reaching for a rolling chair from a nearby cubicle, and positioning himself behind you.
“I do like to watch.”
“Hmm, I bet you do.”
With the proximity, he can’t have missed the way your lips curl into a threatening smirk. You meticulously chose the shade of your lipstick to match the scarlet of your wide-leg, high-waist trouser-suit for today.
“You don’t usually wear makeup,” he observes curiously, his voice a semitone lower than his previous flirtatious statement.
“Not usually, but I do like lipstick. It makes an outfit that much more striking.”
His slow exhale carries a slight whistle, and, if the creak of his chair is anything to go by, he’s leaning back with a casual air, and manspreading. You’re a simple woman: manspreading on a man like Mr Evans is always attractive, hence why it’s so hard to keep your focus on your work all of a sudden, even more so when he says, “You can say that again, fucking hell…”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, but you don’t let him hear it as you get your head down and work. Your college work for the semester is almost done and, Mr Evans was right yesterday, you have an untarnished 4.0 GPA, so you’ve not got too much to worry about, especially not if you’re going to be receiving college credit for the hours upon hours you’ve spent as a congressional intern since your move to D.C.
You’re finished with your work within the hour and move onto something else whether noticed or not, and other than the occasional squeak of shoes on the marble-style flooring, or the creak of his chair as he clears his throat, you’re mostly unaware of Mr Evans’ looming presence behind you. You can’t say the same for your sense of smell though, his cologne slowly moving from being an attack on your nostrils to being a pleasant warm hug, though unusual all the same.
You push your chair out from beneath your desk and curl a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“Mr Evans? It’s elevenses, can I get you anything from the kitchenette? That is, provided you still want to supervise me now I’ve finished those files you asked for.”
You pick them up with an unmanicured hand, and dump them lightly in his lap, startling him from his slouched position. He’s definitely too relaxed for work. No wonder he thinks you’re the most efficient if this is how he himself works.
“Shit, you’re fast. I’ll grab coffee and a donut thanks. And yes, I will be supervising you.”
You don’t even bother to ask why because he won’t have formulated an answer just yet, and if you were to ask it you couldn’t ask it too quickly, too repeatedly, or even too slowly, because one thing you’ve learnt over the past few years with your congressional office working closely with ASP, Mr Evans gets very easily confused and flustered, and would undoubtedly just blurt out some shite along the lines of ‘to spend time with you’ which is borth cringey and uncalled for, not to mention completely false and just another attempt to get into your pants. He does that all the time with the other interns, and for some reason, they all fall for it—quite literally: they fall at his feet. You can tell by the state of their knees the next day—almost as bad as their hearts. Your knees are so used to being in heels that they quite possibly couldn’t cope with such a thing.
What a good thing you’re a top…
Nope, eject those thoughts, and just get Mr Evans the donut he wants—jam and sugared, as you’ve somehow discovered over time—and his coffee—black.
You turn on your heel and begin to strut back to your cubicle when one of Mr Evans’ ex-conquests suddenly appears in front of you, blonde hair falling in reams around her shoulders, still wearing… last night’s party dress apparently, with an oversized sweatshirt and air forces. It’s a look, most certainly, but your mind flutters back to Mr Evans’ comment on the first day. ‘Props for dressing like this is an actual office and not a free for all.’
And then she’s speaking to you for the first time since you told her she was stupid to sleep with Mr Evans considering he’s 1– kind of their boss, and 2– a notorious playboy and heartbreaker. She doesn’t seem to care about your honesty right now, though.
“Oh my God, why is Mr Evans sitting at your desk? Did you finally give in to him?” she inquires.
You scoff, but secure your hold around your coffees and donuts nonetheless. “What? No. Why would I?”
“No reason,” she hums, “you just look real cosy.”
“He’s supervising me, apparently.” You roll your eyes, but don’t miss her performative lip-bite.
“I reckon he likes you, y’know.”
“Well that’d be nice if I was even remotely interested,” you say, you assume honestly, so why does it feel like a weight has sunk to the very pit of your stomach. It definitely isn’t because you’ve said that very line to yourself so many times that it’s second nature to say it even if it isn’t entirely correlated to your true feelings… is it?
“It doesn’t matter if you’re interested. He’s really good in bed. Maybe you’d lighten up a little.”
And with that she walks off. That was nice, you think to yourself, and shake away the cobwebs as you deliver a half-asleep Mr Evans his coffee and donut. You’re not sure why half the interns are here other than a straight white man who runs this place, because you seem to be the most politically inclined and politically minded congressional intern in this place. Of course the others like being here, and are passionate about the cause, as proven by their dedication whenever elections roll around.
“Thanks, baby,” he whispers, thankfully grabbing them from you, and gulping down his coffee while it’s still scalding hot, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. The name he just let slip also doesn’t seem to bother him, if he even noticed. You pointedly ignore it.
“Late night?” you inquire as you take a large stride over him and land elegantly in your chair, crossing your legs.
“Early start,” he responds, but doesn’t meet your eyes with his crystal gaze. “Why?”
“You seem tired. More so than usual when you have your late nights.”
He arches one thick eyebrow over his forehead, “You know about those?”
“Oh my God. Literally, oh my fucking Lord above, Chris.” Possibly the first time you’ve ever called him by his first name, but that’s not important right now as you push ahead. “You shag half the women in the office—mainly interns who are way too young for you, I might add, and you don’t expect me and the entirety of D.C. to notice? It’s every single fucking time you visit!”
“Don’t swear at me, young lady,” he threatens: voice low and demanding.
That’s rich, considering you’re older now than half the interns were when he slept with them, in your early twenties.
You slam your coffee down indignantly, though careful none splashes onto your very expensive, very nice, scarlet trouser suit which you love very much. “Or what? What are you going to do, Chris? Fire me? Sleep with me? Because news flash, you can’t do either of those things. You may wear the big man pants and sit in the office all high and mighty, but you’re just another sad, rich, straight, white man thinking he can make a difference in politics because he’s bored, okay? Sometimes it amazes me, literally astonishes me with each visit, that Taylor Swift didn’t write her ten minute All Too Well about you, because you should probably stop sleeping with people half your age, especially when you—apparently—have a girlfriend—who is also more than a decade too young for you.” Once you finally stop for breath, you notice that perhaps your voice was a little louder than you had prior intended since half the office is staring at you, and Chris is gaping open-mouthed, utterly disbelieving apparently. He knows how feisty you can be: you’ve turned him down what must be over fifty times now. But this? This is a direct attack. Then again, he has no power over you. Absolutely none. You’re not just going to submit to him because he acts like a big man in a suit—he has no fucking idea the privilege he holds just from being the man he is, and was born as. But that’s the problem: your attack is so personal, and is mostly centred around his fuck-boy ways. They can't bother you, they simply can’t, it’s a statistical impossibility. But when you look at him, eyes wide, lips parted, a hand running through his beard… it might not be. Which is horrifying, you might add. Lord above only knows what STDs a man with his reputation is carrying, the thought alone sending a shiver rippling down your spine.
He stands up, his muscular frame straining in his shirt and blazer as he unfastens the button with one hand. His eyes glue to the floor. “I think I’ll leave you to it. Thank you for the work, and the coffee, Miss y/l/n.”
And with that, he leaves. Mr Evans is many things, but resigned has never been one of them, so you must’ve struck a nerve. It’s not that he didn’t deserve any of it, and he has needed to be put in his place for a long time, but you could probably have gone about it in a different way.
However, Mr Evans acting like a butt-hurt predator isn’t going to stop you from working, so you get your head down for the rest of the day.
You seem to be even more productive when you’ve got guilt, or some similar emotion, crawling up your neck. By the end of the day you’re finished with almost twice what you’d usually get done. As everyone else begins to file out, you grab your bag and sling your coat over one arm, leaving your cubicle with all of your work in your spare arm.
Before your brain can quite catch up, your knuckles are knocking on Mr Evans’ unmanned door, inwardly praying that he’s still here.
“Come in,” he calls.
One deep breath later, your heels are clicking on the marble laminate floor and you’re placing the files on his desk, and words are falling from your mouth.
“I’m really sorry about earlier, Mr Evans. I was out of line, and I shouldn’t have taken my personal vendetta against you out in the office: that wasn’t fair. And as for what I said…”
“Don’t apologise for that,” he says, a note of authority in his voice, “you’re right on all accounts. And even if the office wasn’t the most objectively ideal place to have that confrontation, I’m glad it happened. But please, let me take you for a drink—as friends, no strings attached―to make it up to you. But you have to wear that suit.” Almost verbatim what he said to you yesterday.
A chuckle rises to your throat, and all in a flurry, your head feels a little lighter than before.
“I’ll go for a drink with you.” It’s high time you did, and maybe he’s very, very different off the clock, and you owe him this after, well, destroying his reputation with those in the office who weren’t aware of his womanising reputation. “But I won’t wear the suit, hard pass.” You also decidedly elect not to tell him you won’t wear the suit because the only very skimpy underwear you own that doesn’t show a VPL in these trousers has been riding up your arse crack all afternoon. “I will, however, wear the lipstick and the heels.”
His head lolls over the back of the chair, his tongue hanging out in a very dog-like manner. The groan he emits, however, is more feral.
“Done, done, and done,” he agrees with an incredible amount of enthusiasm, and a pearly-white smile peeking through his beard. “Shall I send a car to pick you up? Or I can drive you?”
“Thank you, Mr Evans, but I’m okay to meet you there provided you send me through the name of the bar. Okay?”
“Y– yeah…” he trails off, “yeah, okay. Seven?”
A smirk is painted on your red lips as you turn on your heel to exit, “I’ll see you there.”
Only once you’re outside and away from him do you realise the gravity of what you just agreed to. Why the fuck are you going out for a drink with Mr Evans? He’s the founder of ASP, yes, which is very cool, but he’s also just some horny, stoner actor who, shock horror, doesn’t have a vagina. This is… something else. Maybe it means the stupid fluttering in your lower belly will stop once you shut this down once and for all as friends, because you refuse to be another one of Mr Evans’ interns.
The champagne satin of your cocktail dress glitters even in the dim light of the up-scale bar Mr Evans selected for you, but despite the calibre of the place, you have to be very careful not to get any spilled drinks on your very expensive red-bottom heels.
Mr Evans is already at the bar, dressed down in slim-fitting jeans and a black henley, a blazer-style leather jacket slung over the bar stool to his immediate left.
Your heels on the lino alert him to my presence, and he’s springing up in an instant, arms open wide in an embracing gesture. He meets you, holds your arms in a weird half hug, and presses a kiss to your ever-warming cheek.
“Hey…” you say, your eyes avidly scanning him, though for what, you’re unsure.
“Hey yourself.” He chuckles. “You look stunning. What can I get you?”
“Oh! Thank you. Um, just a tonic water is fine.”
He orders for you, sweeps his jacket up, and follows you to a table, except he doesn’t sit down, and just keeps staring at you. Your brows must furrow at some point, because the next thing you know, he’s asking;
“How tall are you?”
So that’s what this is about. You pull your chair up and slide onto the seat. “I’m not sure. Five ten, five eleven? Probably closer to the latter.”
“And how tall are those shoes?”
“Four and a half inches, ish. Could be more.”
“Why, Evans? Intimidated by a woman taller than you?” you ask, smirking.
He growls almost, a guttural, visceral noise that you haven’t heard possibly ever as he takes a seat, “Take those heels off, then we’ll see who’s boss.”
“Hmm, well, considering you’re technically my boss, yet you’ll more than willingly fall at my whim, I’d say that’s me,” your voice drops to a whisper, “heels or not.”
He all but falls onto his chair groaning at this point, and your smirk is one of sly success.
You make small talk over your drinks, and while he asks you about college and your life here in D.C., you inquire about his acting and his life up in New England. It’s benign, all of it, which is a slight disappointment considering how much you were looking forward to tearing him down upon the slightest pique of interest. But he’s genuinely being friendly, professional, and this isn’t the Mr Evans you know. It’s off putting.
You talk for a little while, and both order another round, chairs gravitating closer to one another, strangely. At some point, his ring-clad hand finds your thigh, likely when you’re laughing at one of his admittedly truly funny anecdotes. His presence is genuinely nice, and for the first time, you can see why all the other girls fell for his tricks if he’s this suavely charming with them all. There’s still something strange that you can’t put your finger on, and when a natural lull in the conversation occurs, your mind screams at you to ask the question you’ve been putting off all evening, and the true reason you came out tonight.
So why put it off any longer? You came here for one reason and one reason only, and now you’ve finished your second round, this seems like the perfect time to ask.
“Why do you sleep with all the interns? I mean you’re old. Not, like, old old, but we’re half your age, Mr Evans.”
He takes a deep sigh, passing his empty glass between both hands on the tabletop. “Chris, please. And I’m not entirely sure I want to tell you that.”
“Why not? And, as a forewarning, ‘because I want to’ isn’t a good enough reason.”
“To get your attention, okay?!”
Fucking hell, he was right not to tell you. Of course you knew he was interested in you, but you’d thought it was just a male thing, a power thing, an ego thing, how he can get every young woman in the office to fall at his feet except you, and he won’t stop until you’re one of them too. But this? This is a… feelings thing.
“You’re joking, right?” you scoff, suddenly in dire need of alcohol to kill the bizarre feeling crawling around your stomach. “You decided to sleep with a bunch of chicks so I’d notice you, and what, get jealous and crawl into your bed too?!”
“It’s not like that,” he says, teeth gritted. His posture shifts, shoulders now hunched and eyes darkening with every passing second. The seams on his shirt pull taut. “I– I like you, and I didn’t know how to go about liking someone younger than me, so I did the only thing I could think of, and after the first time I knew it was wrong, I knew there were better ways to get your attention or pique your interest, damn I only needed to have an intellectual conversation with you to work that one out! But I just couldn’t stop, and I then thought if I delayed sleeping with you, and spent small slots of time with you every time I came, then you wouldn’t forget me, and maybe you’d like me too.”
“That is so fucked up you don’t even realise. You could’ve engaged in more political activism, asked me about college earlier, why I joined this office, or heaven forbid, tried to get to know me and see what we have in common in a friendly way instead of being a perv for years!!!”
“I know,” tears begin to brim in his eyes, and his hands make a futile dart across the table to grab yours, “I’m so sorry.”
Frankly, you’re appalled at all of his actions, of course you are—they’re completely immoral, but here he is, spilling his heart and guts all over the table for you to see. His soul is right there: you could shatter it with a single word if you wanted to.
But you’re past using words right now. So you stand up, grabbing your coat as you shove the chair out from beneath you, standing surprisingly solid even in your high heels. You’ve had enough of his bullshit.
Your hands are clammy and shaking, though, as you press down on your thighs, and your breaths come out shallow despite your best attempts. What sort of sick fucking game is he playing here? Appalled doesn’t begin to cover it. But at the same time…
What if he’s telling the truth?
That makes everything so much worse than you’d begin to consider. Because if he was, you would not be able to refuse this pull he has to him.
You hear his footsteps pounding behind you, evidently having just settled your tab, and races to reach the door before you can. One strong hand wraps around the chrome handle, pulling enough for his muscles to ripple, his rings glistening in the dimming lights.
“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, more earnest than you’ve ever seen him before, his deep voice breaking.
He’s already paid for your drinks, and now he’s apologising and being chivalrous? As you pass him in the narrow glass doorway to the bar, your chest brushes against him, your nipples peaking at the friction between you. And that’s the moment it’s over, because the sincerity in his eyes could not possibly be a lie, no matter how great an actor he is.
“I’m sorry,” he apologises again, softer this time, and evidently for the touch neither of you intended.
But fuck it, you’ve had enough of being the good girl, and no matter how old he is, you’re an adult, and you can be reckless for one night if you damn well want to be. And good lord above do you want to get down and dirty with Mr Evans and see what all the damn fuss is about. In all honesty, you have for a long ass time, but would never admit it. He doesn’t have to know that, though. All he needs to feel is the same flame of passion you feel.
One slender hand swiftly wraps around his head, nails burying in his close cropped hair that bristles at your fingertips as you tug him to you, kissing him. Hard.
His body reacts as yours does, possibly even swifter, almost instantly as he draws you closer, his hands spanning your hips and waist, his grip bruising you. Your body is flush against his, cramped in this tiny doorway, and yet nowhere could’ve been a better first kiss for the two of you. The butterflies that erupt in your belly could swarm a stampede of elephants with their ferocity, and you wouldn’t change a single step it took to get here for the world.
Chris pulls away, just barely, gasping for breath as he searches your eyes. His lips are stained the same red as your lipstick. That’s when you know he’s absolutely in love with you, from this very moment on.
“Out of every one, you’re the only one I want, the only one I’ve wanted since I first saw your tight little ass in those skirts, and your long luscious legs in those stockings and stilettos. Maybe it was the wrong way to get your attention, but…”
“Chris? Shut up.”
He does not have to be told twice, not when you’re dressed in somehow even higher heels and a stunning dress that clings a little too well to every curve of your body. Of course he’s all too enamoured with your brain as well, but your body takes the cake as you kiss him in the middle of a busy D.C. street and yank his hand down to your ass when he isn’t moving fast enough by himself. That's the moment he realises that he has no control in this situation whatsoever, and more surprisingly, he's absolutely more than okay with that.
Your tongues don’t just dance, they tango almost instantly, as soon as he begs entrance with a pleading swipe. He tastes of sweet alcohol and smells of that heavenly cologne but he feels like Chris, something so innate and authentic that you can’t quite describe it.
“Your place or mine?” he asks—begs—when your kisses move to the beard covering his sharp jawline.
A feline smirk wins over as you feel his heart absolutely pounding beneath his pulsepoint, the erratic beat telling you you’re doing everything right. Let’s just say men aren’t your usual area of expertise…
“Yours. Where’s your driver?”
“Just round the corner, if we can make it that far.”
“I can, baby…” you hum, sliding your hand down his toned chest, feeling the tight muscles beneath his Henley as you find his belt, and slip your hand underneath, fishing for his rock-hard member inside, “but I don’t think you can.”
He hisses as your slender fingers wrap around his cock even through his boxers, his head falling to the crook of your shoulder. Magnanimous in victory, gracious in defeat, except you won’t be magnanimous about this win whatsoever, and you have a feeling he’s about to turn into an absolute brat.
“Can you, Mr Evans?” you purr in his ear.
“Yes! Yes, yes, yes…”
You slip your hand through his, giving the both of you a whole wedge of space between your bodies, both radiating heat. “Come on then.”
The speed with which you strut down the street is amazing, thinks Chris, when you have heels of that height on. Your hips sway with every move, your ass creating a peachy silhouette in the flimsy, fitted fabrisc, the same ass he was grabbing at for dear life just minutes ago. When you reach the glossy town car, you don’t even wait for him before flinging the door open and clambering inside, letting him follow of his own volition, but you know the show you’re putting on, and by this point he must be able to tell that the undies you’re wearing aren’t what one would call full coverage. The driver speeds off the minute Chris’s door closes, which also happens to be the moment his lips fuse to yours, his arms caging you in on the leather seat as you grasp onto his shoulders for purchase. His hand skims its way down your dress, each stunted brush of his fingertips on your skin growing in courage that sparks you alive until he reaches the split seam at the leg.
Your hand flies out, pinching his wrist between your thumb and forefinger.
“You think you’ve earned that yet?” you taunt.
His eyes fly open, the blue splintering into shards as a surprisingly puppy-like look clouds his view.
“N– no…” he murmurs, his lips barely moving, “please can I earn it? I’ll make you feel good, I promise.”
So dominant and bossy in the office, so unbelievably pliant and submissive in bed. Just the way a man should be, you grin.
“Go on then, baby.”
There’s no other way to say it than that his face lights up at the prospect, grasping your hips as he turns you both onto your sides, your back pressed against the leather upholstery while Chris works his way up your thighs with gentle caresses despite his rough fingertips, licking his lips when his digits brush the line of your panties. The stark chill of his rings sends a shiver up your spine.
“You may,” you permit.
Like a kid in a candy store, he can’t wait, but his enthusiasm doesn’t counteract his talent. Pushing the fabric aside, his fingers swipe through your folds, gathering the proof of your arousal. A drop of drool appears in the corner of his mouth, his tongue darting out to instinctively lick it away. His eyes flicker to yours for consent, a pleading, doe expression to them. You almost smirk while nodding.
Starting with two, he glides his fingers up your inner walls, tentatively, almost, using a beckoning motion against the velvet sponginess, testing for the spot that makes your knees tremble, even when sandwiched between him and the leather seats. The metal of his rings settles against your core. He works you gently, his eyes growing wider with every whimper you suppress by biting your tongue or lip. His ‘come hither’ movements make it seem as though he’s physically beckoning you to come.
He is. Especially when he begins to work your clit like a joystick, but with an immense tactile talent. The edge is teetering within hold, on a ledge, just when the car rolls to a halt.
“We’re here, Sir.”
“Thank you,” you call, straightening out your dress. Chris repeats your actions, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as you clamber out onto the street. Your togetherness is astounding, though you can’t say as much for Chris, jittery and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Do you want to let me into your house, Mr Evans?”
He groans, his head thrown back, and leads you into the building. To his credit, as you trawl through the corridors, he doesn’t lay a finger on you or say a word. There could be other people around seeing as this is an apartment block, albeit a small one, and he doesn’t so much as kiss you. Until he keys open the lock on his door.
“Nuh-uh,” you scold, “I want you to wash your hands, fetch condoms and lube, and wait for me in the bedroom, only in your pants, yeah?”
He nods eagerly, like a puppy dog, and dashes off before you can even praise him. Sure, it’d be a pleasure to undress him, but this is more efficient, and he riled you more than you’d care to admit in the car.
You kick off your heels at the door, peel your stockings down your legs before taking steps further into his abode. A bachelor pad, that much is evident. Your toes savour the shag pile rug, a white leather sofa holding pride of place opposite the gigantic flat screen which is no doubt tuned into a sporting channel. You finger the strap holding your dress up, trailing your other hand over the keys of his piano, revelling in the faint tinker they make. The straps of your dress skim your arms as they fall down, the garment falling from your body. You step out of it and into the master suite.
There he is, bare, muscular chest rising and falling from the exertion. His boxers cling to his body, and the items you requested are in one hand.
“Good boy,” you praise, sarcasm lacing your tone, but he eats it up. “Thank you Mr Evans.”
“O– of course Miss Y/l/n.”
You take a step closer to him, your fingertips meeting his calf, covered with dark hair.
“Tell me, are you this good for all the women you bring home?”
“No, only for you.”
You smile a little, “Right answer, handsome.”
A crimson blush coats his cheeks, the colour deepening, paired with his jaw gaping, when you move to straddle his thighs. Your underwear, albeit sturdy and modest compared to most people’s lingerie, is a delicate lace that compliments your skin perfectly. The high waistband hugs the very top of your hips, ribbons falling from the band of your bra to tie the set together with a small bow.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, enamoured.
You nod, and instantly his hands are on you, touching whatever skin he can reach across your torso and your waist, down to your own thighs, up to your collarbones and higher. You use his distracted state as leverage, pushing him down onto the pillows. He falls with enthusiasm, and his grip doesn’t falter. Impressive.
“You wanna undress me, or must I do that myself?” you ask with a sly smile.
“Please can I? God, I wanna…”
“Go on then.”
His nimble fingers go straight for the bows, separating your bra and panties, and he then reaches for the clasp at the back of your bra, allowing your breasts to fall free, spilling into his awaiting palms. His thumb and forefingers tweak your nipples, his blue eyes as wide as saucers now as he mumbles senselessly.
“I thought you were an ass man, Mr Evans.”
Incoherent noises slip past his lips, worse than before, but his hands slip around your ribs and down your back, allowing you to feel every ridge and callus before he starts pawing at your ass.
“Oh my God,” he whimpers, “oh my God, I’ve been dreaming about this for years.”
His movements are rough, clumsy, the pads of his fingers dragging along your supple flesh as he kneads your bum with what seems to be all his strength. It definitely turns you on to see this more animalistic side of him, to have him paw at you like a man starved.
“My turn,” you announce.
At the mere sound of your voice, your tone laced with a slight authority, his actions cease, and his hands are rendered at his sides. His head bobs eagerly. You shimmy a little further down his legs, balancing your weight on your calves as your lips come down on the script just beneath his clavicle. His hands fist the sheers, the material tearing slightly as you graze your tongue over the tattoo, but you could swear his brain explodes like the fireworks visible behind his eyes when you lave your tongue over the eagle covering his right pec, skimming his peaked niple as you follow the intricate patterns of ink.
“Ohmygod, please.” He sounds pretty when he begs, that deep tone and Bostonian accent all wrapped in a parcel designed to make your panties even wetter.
To cool him down for a minute, to make him tick, you switch to the designs on each of his upper biceps. The whine is beautiful, so high pitched and needy, you can’t help but smirk a little before giving in and switching your attention to the tattoos on his ribs, blood-coloured lipstick stains littering his skin. He groans now, low and deep, one hand weaving into your hair to tug. You move further down his body, ensuring now to fix your eyes on his, to dare him to look away as you kiss and lick and bite every piece of ink covering the rest of his abs. The feral growl he emits when you finally graze your teeth over the one in his v-line, watching his eyes finally flutter closed as his hips buck up into you for the first time. He’s rock hard, his clothed cock against the column of your throat. Miraculously, this seems to be when he finds his voice, and when his inner brat starts to show.
“Who knew Little Miss Priss liked tattoos?”
Your teeth, previously lifting the waistband of his skin-tight boxers in order to remove them, let go and snap the band against his skin. He winces.
“Call me that again, and you won’t be coming tonight.”
“I’m so sorry, Miss y/l/n,” he bleats.
You don’t deign him with a response, your face a hard mask once again as you peel the fabric from his body in one move, removing your own panties a second later. You snatch up a condom, ripping the packet open and removing the item.
“S– shouldn’t I be doing that?”
Your eyes burn into his, a cold stare, “You’ve proven that you can’t be trusted with your own pleasure so no, Mr Evans, you shouldn’t. May I?”
You pinch the top and roll it onto his thick cock, even bigger and heavier in your hand than he previously seemed to be. Long, uncut, extremely sensitive…
“You want this?” you confer.
“Yes, yes, I want this so much, I have for so long… can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me, your skin on mine, fuck, please just make me feel good!”
A smirk tugs at the corner of your red lips. “If you insist.”
Grasping his cock in one hand, you sink down on him, no need for the lube you asked him to fetch just in case. It’s a snug fit, his girth stretching your walls, his dick pulsating with every flutter your pussy makes. Wow. Before you’ve even moved, once you’re fully seated on him, his tip grazes your g-spot. You haven’t been with a guy in quite some time, so this is different, but it’s definitely good.
“You’re so tight,” he grunts.
“And you’re so big, Mr Evans,” you tell him, fluttering your lashes.
He’s a mess already, and it seems incoherency is his strong suit, since he replies with a mere, “You’re so beautiful,” that makes you want to cave to his wishes already
His hips make the move to cant upwards, but you stop him with a sharp thrust of your own, reminding him just who’s in control. He doesn’t complain. You rise onto your knees and sink back down onto him, your pace increasing every so often, watching the way his abs contract, hoe his lips part with each little moan that slips by them, his crystal eyes closing when the lewd noises of your wet pussy become too loud.
“I’m so in love with your body,” he murmurs.
The bliss overtakes you too, rolling your hips as his pubic bone grazes over your clit with every grind, his cock hitting every sweet spot laced inside your core.
“I– I’m close,” he cries.
You can tell, and just to tease him some more, you rake your nails over his abs, your hips forming a figure eight as you ride him harder.
“I know, Mr Evans. But you won’t come without permission, will you?”
You rise up onto your knees and fall back onto him, his hands making another grab for your ass as your own stomach starts to coil at long last, a blazing orgasm burning on the fringes, hissing through your veins. With one final grind, you lower your lips to his ear, your hot breath fanning the lobe as the trim patch of hair offers yoru pearl enough friction to draw you into a haze.
Your orgasm is transcendent, racking through your body with no regard for anything else, a loud moan searing your throat as you ride it out, your walls squeezing Chris. Even once you come down from your pleasure, your hips are moving leisurely, but there are tears forming in Mr Evans’ eyes.
“You wanna come, baby, now you’ve made me feel good?”
His nod surely makes him dizzy, his breath coming out in laboured pants as he searches for the tiniest tad of friction.
“Yes, please. You’ve made me feel so good, too.”
“Come for me, then, Mr Evans,” you coax.
Right on cue, he does, his load filling the condom, warmth spreading through your core. He groans and whines, shakes and clings to you. Wow.
As much as you hate to admit it, you can see why everyone says he’s such a good lay, why he always has a new intern in his bed. So obedient, so attentive, such a pretty face…
But he’s not your type, and you don’t exactly feel like working through all his shit with him. This hookup definitely fits under the umbrella of ‘I can’t fix him but I can rail him,’ and you’re okay with that.
“Miss y/l/n,” he breaks the silence, “that was incredible, you’re so sexy I could cry, but… please can you do something for me?”
Your hand strays to his hair, smoothing down the dark, wry locks, “Of course I can.”
“C– can you degrade me?” Your eyes grow wide, your jaw opening slightly in shock. “No, no, don’t worry. Forget I asked, I’m so sorry.”
“No, Mr Evans. That’s not it. I definitely can, but I thought you liked praise?”
“I do!” he hastens to add. “I love praise, but I kinda like soft degradation, y’know calling me names and saying my only use is to make you feel good?”
“Yeah, sure, I can do that.” You pause, eyes trailing over his face. “Only for you, Mr Evans.”
“Thank you, Miss y/l/n, you’re the best…”
And there’s your praise kink flaring up again. He was praising you so much and it only fuelled your already roaring libido. You weren’t planning another round, but if he really wants this, and if he’ll keep praising you…
“You wanna eat me out, baby? Use your tongue like a good boy should?”
He hardens within you at your words alone. Impressive. You roll off of him, allowing him to do with the condom what he will as you take a swig of water from the glass beside his bed that you hadn’t noticed before, but that he must’ve brought with him before this began, since there’s an identical glass on the opposite stand, beside his rings. When you turn back, though, he’s ready. He grabs you by your thighs, using an astounding upper body strength to haul you over to him, your knees astride his shoulders. His tongue darts out to lick at your swollen nub, stiff like your nipples.
“You taste divine.”
“Well let’s hope you can make me feel it, baby,” you coo, “or is that too much for you?”
Challenge shines in his eyes and he doesn’t hesitate to bring your pussy down on his face, his beard rubbing your inner thighs and lower lips almost instantly. The friction is heavenly, and has you grabbing onto the headboard and his cropped hair for purchase.
His tongue delicately parts the seam of your labia, already lapping at the drops of your arousal, humming at the taste. The vibrations roll through your body, curving your spine. His nose nudges your pearl but his lithe muscle works its way further down to your opening, inserting his tongue where his dick had been just minutes before. His skill is immense, sending your nerves into a frenzy while your hips undulate over his face of their own accord, drawing whimpers olling from his lips to match your moans.
“Finally your mouth has a purpose further than chatting up other women.”
“Yes, Miss y/l/n!” he agrees, though it’s muffled.
He licks, laves and lavishes, sending pleasure coursing through your every brain, tormenting your mind with lust, the precursor of a luxuriant climax you can’t quite reach yet. He returns his tongue to your clit, peeling away the hood as he suckles on the nub, finally building that coil in your lower belly. The sharp cry that tears from your throat isn’t your fault but is due to the talent of his tongue.
“Nothing more than a fuck toy, eh?” you tease.
His moan floods your core with more arousal than you know what to do with, your hips bucking, hands pulling at his hair while his beard tickles your sensitive inner thighs, only adding to the sensation. His fumbling caresses on your ass draw him closer to you, whining, his pelvis thrusting into thin air as he searches for the friction he’s doling out to you in spades, his rigid sex hardening with your every rise and fall.
“So horny, so desperate, and you can’t even touch yourself. Pathetic little noises,” you jibe, “you’re touching me so well, though, baby…”
And at that precise moment, his one hand moves from cupping your ass cheek and slips his finger past the tight ring of muscle, only to the first knuckle, but oh the intrusion. You startle, as though electrically sparked, jolts of pleasure ricocheting around you: his brat tendencies are showing again. Still, it’s not unwelcome, and you find yourself leaning into the action, seeking the waves of pleasure that run up your spine when paired with his mouth and hands working your different holes, his facial hair stimulating your clit as far as you can go.
“Stupid man, Mr Evans, getting me into your bed this way. Well now at least you won at something…”
You can feel him hardening behind you and beneath you, since the muscles in his chest and abs contract with each twitch of his thick cock. He could make you scream with pleasure if you weren’t so inhibited, so your moans and murmurs will have to suffice, since you feel it even if you don’t convey it.
It’s fervid, a fever dream, but your climax comes on like a freight train, flooring you as you writhe above Mr Evans, sitting on his face and using him for your pleasure only. Your walls clench around his tongue, but he only takes it as an opportunity to delve further in, his heart beating rapidly beneath you. Your hands travel upwards as you ride the waves that ebb and flow around you, tweaking at your nipples and feeling the sensations everywhere.
You topple off him, falling into the cool sheets that shape around you, your chest heaving. You turn your head to glance at Chris, currently panting just like you are, white cum sticking to his gorgeous muscles and contrasting the dark ink of his tattoos and the shadows of your lipstick. The smirk that tugs at your mouth is pure feline, a blooming sense of achievement in your chest.
“Someone enjoyed himself,” you intone. His face flushes a crimson that it probably shouldn’t after where it just was, which is why you add, “Sorry for, y’know.,” you gesture to your thighs and then his face.
He chuckles, rolling on his side to face you, “Being caught between your thighs is the most delicious vise of silken flesh…”
You smile to yourself, scraping your nails gently through his hair, “I’ve gotta go pee. Bathroom through there?” You point to a door covered in stacks of blazers and shirts on the hooks: all of which he’s worn to the office this week.
“Yeah. Miss you already.”
You roll your eyes at his lopsided expression as you scurry away and sort yourself out, admiring the vintage-style tile that covers the room head to toe, even on the toilet lid. Not very subtle, and therefore very Chris.
He’s standing there, towering in the doorway when you open the door again, taking you by surprise by snatching your lips in a kiss. You close the door and pluck his henley off the pile by his bed. The duvet is around your waist, your head in the pillows, by the time he comes back out, stopping dead at the sight, his abs glistening with drops of water.
“It suits you better. Keep it.”
“If you insist,” you giggle. “Join me?”
“Not running out on me, then?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Not yet.”
Though in actuality you can’t gather the sense to leave, not when his sheets smell just like him, woody and masculine and citrusy and so damn comforting. And while you won’t verbally admit it, you want to fall asleep in his strong, safe arms just this once before you let tonight go like it was just a dream, if you can ever find the strength for that.
“Hey, you okay?” he prys, his voice low. Suddenly he’s beside you, his fingers under your chin, his thumb swiping your lip. “You went away with the fairies.”
“Yeah, sorry. I– I’m good. Thank you for this, Chris. It was really nice. And I’m so sorry for how rude I was to you earlier. And before that. And I’m sorry it took me so long because this was such an incredible night, and I do like spending time with you…”
He cuts you off by his lips on yours, fusing, melding, fastening, your words lost on the tip of your tongue as his steals them away. His kisses are the most intoxicating thing about him.
“It’s okay. I’m real sorry for everything as well, but we’re here, right?” You nod, surprised at his relaxing tone. “And that’s all that matters. Don’t get all het up.”
You nestle into him, your head slotting perfectly between his shoulder and neck. Lips brushing your temple, arms enveloping you, fingers tracing… it’s funny how much can change in such a short space of time. His digits find your folds again, slipping through, arousing you once more before caressing your waist, your ass, anywhere he can reach.
“Chris?” you murmur.
He shushes you gently, “You can rest now. You deserve it. I’m here.”
Chris stirs at the blaring sound of his alarm, rolling over in the sheets, now laced with your scent. He presses snooze, laying back in the pillows, a lazy smile adorning his face. Last night was… consummate. The best sex of his life. Yet when he turns to your side of the bed, the sheets are neatly straightened, and there’s no sign of you. Not even a note.
“Y/n?” he calls. Upon garnering no response, he calls again, louder this time.
The relief that floods his senses is surely not normal, but he can’t help it when your head pops around the door, his shirt gracing your tall frame.
“I was just making some tea. I didn’t realise you were up.”
“I only just woke, darling. Come back to bed.”
You sigh, cracking the door open a little more despite turning on your heel, away from him. “I’ve got work.”
“No you haven’t:” he rushes, “I got you a paid day off for today.”
“Chris! No!” you exclaim. “That’s not your place.”
“I– I’m sorry. I just wanted to spend some more time with you. I’m leaving tomorrow night and I won’t be back for months…”
He truly is a little brat. You leave his mind to scramble and go to pour your tea, your clothes assembled in a neat pile on the piano. Right on cue, he scampers out from his room, one foot caught in his boxers as he hops over his apartment to reach you.
“Y/n, please. Spend the day with me. I’ll take you for breakfast, lunch, dinner, take you shopping, to the library, or we could stay in bed, or watch TV or do wherever you want. Please don’t go yet.” His voice fractures, weaning in strength with his final words. For all that you pride yourself on your cold exterior and ability to be objective on many matters, a forty year old millionaire kneeling at your feet and begging you to spend the day with him is something you can’t refuse. The sincerity in his eyes sends an ache through your heart. And that, paired with that stupid voice in your heart encouraging you to, is the reason you agree to stay.
“I’ll come back to bed, go straighten the covers,” you tell him.
His face all but lights up, even beneath the dark beard covering the lower portion. Except before he disappears, he jogs to the door, snatches up your Louboutins, and dashes back to his room. You smile to yourself. Chris’ cheekiness is a compelling enough reason in itself to spend the day in bed with him.
The clock strikes 9pm, the time you told yourself you’d leave his apartment and not look bad. So now the moment’s come, why are you so hesitant to part with him? It’s a necessary evil, and you've been together constantly for the past twenty four hours… You’re dressed in his flannel over your dress, standing at his door, watching him towel dry his hair. You whiled the day away in bed, mostly, going out for a nice lunch, watching a film in his arms in the afternoon, not even discussing work or politics once, but falling into a steady rhythm. Despite the comfort, your differences were still alarming, which is exactly why you’re here, ready to go.
Chris catches sight of you and his movements halt, his expression resigned, his shoulders slumped. “I thought today would be enough to convince you to stay.”
“Good sex and a nice lunch doesn’t equal a relationship, Mr Evans,” you say, adding an inflection of humour to your tone. It doesn’t convey, or meet your eyes. You know how resigned you must look, too.
“But I care about you! I want this to work, I want to be with you, I want a relationship. Please.” That escalated very quickly. Evidently you went into this with very different expectations. It takes you a good moment of silence, kicking your shoes off to meet his height in his moment of vulnerability, until you find the right words, modulating your tone accordingly.
“Chris, we can’t be together. I don’t feel the same way you feel about me. I’m warming to you as a person, but you’re a political broadcaster, for lack of a better word, while I’m at school, working to become a politician. That in itself is enough of a reason for us to be incompatible, not to mention age, distance, my sexuality and preference of girls… I can’t be with you,” you tell him in earnest.
The air is sucked from the room around you, the lights flickering.
“Y/n, please,” he begs, his accent thick, “you’re everything to me. You’re the one I look forward to seeing every visit.”
“And that doesn’t have to stop because of this!” you exclaim. “I’ll see you the next time you come, I– I’ll help you with ASP stuff whenever, but that doesn’t mean I have to be your obedient little girlfriend.” You certainly didn’t intend the bite in your words.
“I don’t expect that of you!” he cries. “I just want you, in whatever capacity. I want you to do this, finish school, be a politician, and I’ll give up whatever it takes for us.”
Your heart shatters at the resignedness in his eyes, his voice, the every line of his body. You take his hands in yours and hold them, your thumbs rubbing shy circles over his knuckles. “I don’t want you to do that, Chris. Look at me, c’mon.” His eyes trail to meet yours, tears shining afresh in them. “I trust you. I believe in what you feel. And just because I don’t feel it yet, my feelings for you have definitely increased these past few days. But I’m not ready for a relationship yet. You’ve gotta appreciate that I’m still really young, still in college, and while what’s between us may be ‘it’ for us both, I need to experience more of the world and build a life for myself before I can offer my heart to someone.”
He sniffles, tugging one hand away from yours to wipe at his eyes and nose. “I get that. I’m sorry.”
“Shh, no, don’t apologise. And we can still do this, yeah? Whenever you come down, I’ll be here to see you and we can spend time together, we can help each other out. I’ll even come to Boston during the holidays if you want me to,” you offer.
Your brain won’t accept it yet, but Mr Evans irrevocably holds a piece of your heart. Maybe you will find your way back to him in the future when things are more settled, when the age difference doesn’t matter so much, when he’s grown out of his man-whoring ways. Sure he can teach you a lot, but you can help him too, educate him, motivate him, prove what his activism can truly do. But for now, this is what’s right, no matter the cost and the pain.
“Can you stay with me tonight?” he whispers.
“Of course I can.”
“Good morning, Miss y/l/n,” Mr Evans calls to you as he passes through the office.
His brogues click on the floor, though you can see through his feigned confidence as he flicks open his blazer by the single button straining across his tattooed chest. No one else sees him this way, though: only you can see that vulnerability. His favourite intern.
“Good morning, Sir,” you echo, straightening your neckerchief and how it fits in your blouse now you’ve removed your blazer, the one that matches his favourite of your skirts, “did you have a good night?”
Last night, Chris made love to you for hours. He ensured he proved every single word to you, appreciating you with every inch of his body. He fulfilled promises he made that no one could make good on but him. That tenderness and passion can’t be feigned. Something in him has melted the iciness of you, warming your soul up to him, the idea of a relationship. And yet you can’t imagine it with anyone but Chris, even if the idea is in your future.
His smile is gentle, his eyes already shining with unshed tears by the time he reaches the door to his office. He thinks only one heart was broken last night, but you knew from the moment you chatted sincerely with him, that you’d be another intern with a broken heart, only so much worse. Which is why his next words wound you so. “I did, thank you. A good enough night to face the day, and all the rest to follow.”
Always and Forever:
With no one there for her to distract herself, Luisa soon became impatient, sitting alone at the table with a cloth she placed over it so flies wouldn't fly over the food. Worry and no information of what might have happened, made her anxious, wondering if it wouldn't be better for her to have gone along with everyone else.
At times like that, she wished she had Dolores' gift.
Suddenly, when her gaze lifted from the colorful patterns on the cloth to check if anyone was coming, she was surprised to recognize you, running in the direction of her house.
Confused, but at the same time intrigued, Luisa got up from her chair.
"Anor, what happened-...?" She tried to ask as she noticed the tears welling in your eyes, but her words were replaced by a grunt as you jumped onto her belly and wrapped her in a hug, so tight that if her body wasn't strong and tough as a rock, her ribs would break.
Thinking the worst could've happened, Luisa carefully took you in her arms and hold you back in a not-so-tight hug, in contrast to yours that seemed to hug her as if you were doing it for the last time.
"Are you okay, mi amor? Is it still hurting?" You asked concernedly between sobs, as you brought your hands up to her cheeks and caressed them gently with your thumbs.
She smiled at you, looking at you with loving eyes. You would melt all over if you weren't so worried.
"Don't worry, it's over. I'm fine now." She replied calmly.
"No, I couldn't stop that from happening, I'm really, really, really sorry." You said, still feeling immense guilt over it.
"Why are you apologizing to me? None of this was your fault, you had no way of knowing what was going on while you were at work." She said.
"That's why, I'm your girlfriend, I should protect you from what makes you unhappy too, because when you feel bad, I feel bad too and if I'm not able to protect the person I love the most in the world, I won't..."
You were interrupted when your girlfriend pulled you even closer and shut you up with a kiss soft, short kiss.
"It's not worth it to brood over a bad thing that happened, what's gone is gone."
"I know, but I promise I won't let her do anything to you again." You muttered, as you leaned your forehead against hers.
"Oh cariñito, we both know this is an impossible thing to promise." She said, but showed no sadness, her beautiful face having an expression that blended serenity and happiness. "Just promise that you'll never let me go through a hard time without you, that's enough for me."
"Isn't that what I've been doing for like... Almost 12 years?" You asked with a smile, raising an eyebrow.
"I know that, you silly, I want it to be this way, forever and ever and ever and ever." She replied, squeezing you even more tight in her arms and you heard a crack. You were lucky you had a mother-in-law who made healing food.
"I don't need to promise you to fulfill it. I love you." You mumbled, your likely 15th "I love you" just that day.
"Aw. I love myself too, cosa linda." She replied in a sweet tone of voice.
Realizing what she had said, you snapped out of your passionate enchantment. Unable to hold back a smile, you gave her a light pat on the shoulder, which made her give the loveliest of all laughs. Your heart fluttered each time you listened.
You stayed there, had lunch and had a great time with her and her family as well. Fortunately, everyone looked very happy as if that unpleasant episode had been erased from their memories.
However, that day something happened that you've never done before: You lost track of time and there were only 10 minutes left to go back. You gave Luisa a kiss, said goodbye to everyone and hurriedly went back to work.
Arriving there, your boss was waiting for you at the counter, your smile of happiness slowly faded, as you noticed the angry expression on her face.
"Dona Claudia, I..."
Before you finished explaining what happened to her, she interrupted you.
"Gee, almost late again." She said, in a dry, sarcastic tone of voice. "You have to remember your responsibilities, niña, or you arrive early, or late and arriving late shows immense incompetence." She scolded you, acting as if you had committed some serious crime.
You took a deep breath to try to stay calm, knowing this was one of those days.
"...I'm sorry, I promise it won't happen again." You said softly, with your head down.
"Okay, now go get me some coffee." She ordened, while tossing you some coins, which rolled across the floor.
You had no choice but to obey what she wanted. Now about to live alone, you couldn't lose that job.
That was a really tiring day, but you could make it through until 6pm. However, you waited for her to arrive so you could close the shop, but became restless when she appeared, making you serve people who were relieved to still find the stationery shop open.
When you saw it, she made you work overtime, not even once mentioning that you would get overpaid for it.
"Alright Y/N, today wasn't a good day, but there is nothing that can spoil your night... I hope." You said to yourself as you walked to get your things.
You were surprised when you got there and you already saw the wagon with all the furniture there, arranged to fit in it like it was a puzzle game.
"Looks like someone is late." Luisa joked, before giving you a kiss.
"I know, I'm sorry amor, Doña Claudia made me work overtime today." You explained, not having the courage to tell her about the abuse at your work, because you knew how she'd react. "But come on, I'm here now."
"As you wish." She said with a smile.
You two went along with the wagon to your new home, where you finally opened the front door and saw what it looked like inside for the first time, barely holding back with excitement.
That wasn't the biggest house in the whole city, but you didn't care about any of that, it looked so cute and cozy. You visited all the rooms first and already had in mind how and where each of the furniture would be.
Lucky your super-strength girlfriend was there to help you bring things in, even if it was her day off. You were officially an independent girl, owning your own life and supporting yourself with your own money. You really liked that feeling.
"Yeah, we did a good job here." Luisa said, hands braced on her hips as she looked contentedly around the living room.
You took one of her hands in yours and gave it a quick kiss.
"Thank you so much, for everything." You said, stroking her hand's back with your thumb.
"For bringing things here? Oh, you know, it's nothing." She replied, looking away shyly.
"No cielo, for everything you've done for me so far. I don't even know how I could ever repay you." You explained, smiled and leaned your head on her arm.
"Why are you thanking me? You've accomplished this all by your own efforts. And you don't know how much I'm proud of you." Luisa replied, a great feeling of happiness washed over you when she said that.
"Yeah, that might be it, but if it weren't for my love for you, I'd never have done any of this, the courage to leave my house so I can be with you, you gave me a temporary ceiling to live and got me my job. So technically, it was thanks to you too" You explained, as you ran your index finger along the path of her arm.
Almost immediately after, you were surprised when she suddenly held you in her lap. Your arms reflexively wrapped around her shoulders for fear of falling backwards, one of her arms around your back and the other under your legs, as if you were a bride.
"What are you doing?" You asked between amused laughs.
"What I've wanted to do since I first saw this couch." She murmured in a low, deep voice, with her face very close to yours. You saw the fire of passion glean in her eyes, making a red blush spread across your entire face.
Luisa abruptly threw you onto the couch, placing herself on top of you shortly after.
Because she was so tall, she had to be a little lower than you, you always drived wild when you felt her breasts against your belly. You gasped when you felt her hand grip your waist tightly and the other one cupped your cheek, before lowering her head and she pressed her lips against yours.
With no patience to start slow, she kissed you savagely, pushing her tongue inside your mouth and biting your lips every now and then, while you kissed her back trying to keep up with her, which resulted in a lot of sloppy kisses, but still, it felt good.
Until, taking the opportunity of one of the short breaks from her amorous attacks, you lifted your head a little and began to fill her neck with passionate open-mouthed kisses, licking and relishing the salty taste of her skin.
"O-oh, bebita..." She gasped and giggled sofly, surprised at yet another boldness from you.
Over time, your shows of love became more and more violent as you let yourself be carried away by the moment, leaving marks of hickeys and small nibbles on her and being completely enchanted by the small noises of pleasure she made.
After you finished, you watched her look at you with a genuine smile of happiness, before capturing your lips in another kiss. However, unfortunately it didn't last long when you started to hear knocks on your door.
Luisa broke the kiss and gave an annoyed grunt as she dried her mouth with her fingers.
"Who is it supposed to be?" You asked between panting breaths, more curious to know who it was than annoyed by whoever it was, interrupted your make out session.
"I don't know, but they came just in time." Your girlfriend grumbled as she stood up and straightened her messy clothes and hair.
"Hey." You called out to her, causing her to turn to look at you before going to answer the door. "We'll continue later? Okay?"
You winked at her and she gave you a beautiful smile before heading to the door as you sat down and also straightened the mess to looking presentable.
Luisa opened the door, muttering a low "who is it?", startled to see that it was her family.
"SUPRIIIIIIIIISE!" They shouted happily, each one carrying an unopened bowl of food in their arms.
"We came for dinner, to celebrate her first day at the house." Antonio said, giving little jumps in excitement.
"Unless we came at the wrong time." Camilo provoked Luisa with a suggestive tone of voice, which, even trying not to show it, showed a certain embarrassment.
"N-no, of course not, come in." She replied, giving him a forced smile.
With so many people in the house, you soon felt her surroundings much more cheerful, and you were even happier to see that your father came with them.
"Pa, you came!" You exclaimed, giving him a hug after he placed the bowl he was carrying on the dinner table.
"Of course, do you really think I would miss this important moment in your life?" He said, looking at you lovingly as he cupped your cheeks in his palms.
You gave him a smile and cocked your head to the side, noting how Luisa looked a little uncomfortable, not having the courage to speak to your father again after the day you introduced her as your girlfriend.
Manuel smiled and walked over to her, who, without knowing what to say to him, waved shyly. You had to admit, it was super cute.
"It's okay niña, I'm not like my wife." He assured her in a comforting voice.
Now knowing this, from one second to the next her behavior towards him changed completely, now returning to the way it was before.
"Suegrito!" She exclaimed, as she wrapped him in a bear hug and lifted him off the ground, but your father didn't seem to mind and hugged her back.
All the Madrigals and you were immensely happy to see the two of them interact. Fortunately, nothing went wrong that night. The first dinner at your new house was very special, having so many special people there with you.